The Edge of the Tombstone
by FionaTailynn
Summary: Post-Reichenbach "Once I put my hand on John, he frantically turns around in shock. His eyes widen and he lets out a yelp of surprise. John steps back and twists his ankle in that moment, tripping backwards. I try to reach for him but my hands miss him by a millisecond. He falls on his back, his head hitting the edge of the tombstone."


Return. Reunion. Resurrection. All of which have completely different definitions (_I _should know), and yet they mean the exact same thing to me: Happiness.  
It's been three years. Three years, and now I'm finally coming back. Three years, and the world will stop thinking of me as a criminal, which basically means they'll go back to calling me "smart arse". Well it isn't like I ever minded... Sometimes it felt as if spending those months and months of time, killing the web off piece by piece, were a complete waste, but now, I'm on my way to see John again, and everything will pay off.  
I just need to tell him I'm alive, calm him down, say I'm sorry, and everything will be okay. It has to be.

My phone vibrates. When I knew that I was finally returning I told Mycroft and asked him where I should meet with John. He's replied.

_Go to the graveyard. He goes there every Saturday, and you shouldn't get any company. Good luck. –M  
_  
I stare at it for a while then nod. It does seem to be the best choice, so I text back:

_Okay. –SH_

The cool London breeze blows in my face as I walk along the streets trying not to catch any attention. In the distance I can see the graveyard. My pace quickens and soon I'm running, eager to see John again.  
Once I arrive I hide behind a tree, were my tombstone is visible. There, I wait.

Alone with my thoughts I spend an hour or so sitting cross-legged behind it before anything happens. Suddenly, I see a figure walking over to the stone.  
_  
John._

Silently I stand up and glance around the edge: John isn't saying anything; he's just quietly staring at my name engraved upon the black stone, with a desperate wish in his eyes.  
"Your wish is about to come true, John." I murmur, and when I see his eyes close, I grab my chance and quickly, but cautiously get closer to him.

I'm standing right behind him now. I want to scream at him, but I know that's unwise. Instead I softly place my hand on his shoulder and whisper his name.  
After that everything happens so fast. Once I put my hand on John, he frantically turns around in shock. His eyes widen and he lets out a yelp of surprise. John steps back and twists his ankle in that moment, tripping backwards. I try to reach for him but my hands miss him by a millisecond. He falls on his back, his head hitting the edge of the tombstone. I grab for him again, this time catching his head when suddenly I feel something warm on them. _Blood._

I blink at the horrifying turn of events, but suddenly I become focused and I look down at the unconscious body that is lying in my hands. I panic.  
"John! John! Wake up!" Instead more blood drips on my hand.  
"Wake up!" I scream helplessly. I get the most terrifying idea, and I reach for his wrist to disprove it. I sigh when I feel his slight pulse.

I don't know what to do, his head is now resting in my lap and I'm too numb to reach for my phone to call an ambulance. My eyes flash over to my gravestone and I see a line of blood rolling right over the second "S" in my name. I can't move. My head just keeps replaying what just happened, trying to make sense of it. I'm supposed to be the one lying on the ground, after John punches me that is.

"Excuse me, sir. Is everything all right?"  
Suddenly I look up and see an old, friendly looking lady looking at me with a worried face. I still can't find any strength to get up, so I motion to John.  
"Help me." My voice is cracking.

Pathetic.

I don't really catch on to anything happening around me, all I know is that the ambulance arrives and suddenly I'm sitting in a waiting room, my fingers fumbling with each other.

After hours a doctor finally comes out of the ICU with a worried look upon his face. I sit up properly and lift my chin to give the impression that I'm not totally uncertain of what's going on. He sighs at me and sits down in the chair next to me.

The man frowns and takes a deep breath. He tries to explain every detail but only very few words reach me:

_Spinal fracture. Brain damage. __**Permanent coma**__._

"W-what? Let me talk to him."  
"You can't, Mister Holmes. He isn't _conscious._"  
"What do you mean he isn't conscious?"  
"Like I said, the hit on the back of the head brought him into a most likely permanent coma state." Normally I'd understand what this means, but it's too overwhelming to grasp.  
"What does that mean?"  
"It means that we'll have to perform euthanasia if he doesn't get better soon enough."  
"Euthanasia?"  
"Pull the plug." The doctor clarifies. That is the moment when I finally understand. I let out a shutter.

"L-let me talk to him." I finally say after the time I need to process the information (though really, I haven't yet).  
"I already told you, you can't."  
"No, just let me into his room."  
"Oh." The doctor says, standing up and starts walking along the hallways. "Follow me then."  
I get up and stay behind him, not really paying any attention to where I'm going.  
He enters a room and holds the door for me. I walk through and see John lying on a bed, attached to life support.  
"John." I whisper, hoping he'll reply. I still haven't heard his voice in three years. He doesn't.  
"Could you please leave me alone with him?" I ask, the doctor nods and walks out, closing the door behind him. I fall into the seat beside the bed and look at him for a while.

"Talk to me!" I suddenly yell.  
"Please, John. Talk to me." I ask after I've calmed down a little. Still there isn't a reply. My lip quivers and I can feel my eyes going a tiny bit moist. Am I crying?  
"So I guess I'll have to do the talking again?" I ask after laughing sadly.  
"The doctor told me you aren't going to wake up. That doesn't have to be true, you can just wake up for me, please?" I let out a sigh.  
"I know, you're probably thinking 'why does he deserve for me to wake up?' And you're right, I don't. But you deserve an explanation. If you were conscious enough to hear this, then I'd know you would wake up... that means you don't get one. So please, wake up, I need you to understand, I need you to forgive me, even if you have no reason to!" My voice cracks and I can feel the tears rolling down my face. Suddenly the sobs come choking up and I cross my arms over the edge of the bed and lean into them.

I stay in that position for hours, until suddenly the door opens. Frantically I look up, finding myself staring at Molly. She notices my wet face (this is embarrassing).

"Oh, sorry, I'll just leave." She says already turning around.  
"No. Stay here, please." I finally say.  
"Oh. All right." She says a little bashful and walks over to the seat next to me. After sitting down, we both just stare at John, not making any sound.

"I'm very sorry, Sherlock." she finally says, clearly trying to break the ice. I nod, still not looking up to her.  
"Wh… What happened exactly?" she asks. I look up to her, not exactly knowing what to say.  
"That's fine if you don't want to tell me," says Molly with a hint of disappointment. I go back to glaring at John's unconscious body and wipe my face.

"I scared him." Molly looks up in surprise that I finally said something.  
"I… I wanted to meet him at my grave, so I silently got right behind him. After I put my hand on his shoulder, he frantically turned around. I scared him and he tripped backwards, his head hit my gravestone and…" Molly nods, surprisingly not giving me a reprehending look. We both turn our heads again so we don't need to look at each other.  
"You only did what you thought was right." She tries to reassure me.  
"Well I was wrong!" I yell, turning back to her. My fury is catching up with me.  
"I was wrong the one time it counted…" I mumble. She shakes her head lightly, still trying to convince me that it isn't my fault. How could she even think that would work?

"Just before he fell… I saw him look at me… He knew that it was me; he understood that I was alive… His eyes widened, I could see this question forming on his face: 'why? Why would you do this? Why did you make me wait and suffer?' …And now he won't ever get an answer."  
She places her hand on my arm and it's one of the first times human contact comforts me.

"They're going to pull the plug and it's all my fault!" I break down into tears again, and surprisingly I don't mind someone else seeing me. Molly wraps her arms around me and all I can do is wail on her shoulder.

"This is all my fault, all my fault…" I repeat while taking big gulps of air.  
"It's going to be all right." She tells me still holding me.  
"No it won't!" I sob in her arms, and continue crying until my eyes are completely dry. Molly hasn't moved. She suddenly catches a glimpse of her watch.  
"I… I have to go now, I'm sorry. Are you going to be okay?" I pull my head away so I'm right side up and nod. She makes a tiny wave and places one hand on my shoulder before she leaves the room.

The next days pass slowly. I don't move from my chair and can only be forced to occasionally drink something. It's like I'm in some kind of trance, still trying to understand the fact that I can never know if John would've forgiven me or not (but come one, who are we kidding?). The longer I sit here, watching John in his eternal sleep, the more I become stuck to my chair. There is no improvement in his state. Rarely a doctor enters the room to check on John still finding nothing indicating a miraculous recovery. My hands tightly grip the armrests of the chair as I stare at the immobile body without even blinking.

The door opens behind me but I give it no attention. Soft steps approach me and stop in front of the bed. My mouth closed tightly I don't take away my look from John. When I realize that the person standing next to me has no intention in checking on the man lying in the hospital bed I understand whom it is. Quickly, I turn my head to the right to face Molly who is looking into space sadly. The moment she senses my attention she looks at me seriously, arms crossed. We both glare at each other silently waiting for the other to speak first. Finally, she opens her mouth:  
"You haven't got some fresh air in days. You need to get out, Sherlock." I see through her games instantly, narrow my eyes and turn my head away from her. I hear a sigh coming from beside me.  
"Sherlock, you should really get out, move a little. You haven't even eaten!"  
"I have to stay with him," I reply, still focusing on the slow beeping indicating my friend's pulse. A warm hand touches my shoulder.  
"Please..." I think of what is inevitably going to happen very soon, of what the consequences will be, and though the thought stings in my head, I realize that I need to come to accept it.

After god knows how long, I nod and force myself out of the seat. My eyes squint and I grunt as I suddenly notice how stiff I actually am. Molly smiles at me.  
"I'll see to him, don't worry." Wearily, I nod and slowly drag myself out of the room. With uneven steps I pass the many corridors of the hospital until I finally find the main exit. The fresh wind whips against my cheeks and blows all the hair I didn't bother about out of my face. I bite my lip so not to flinch and place my hands in my coat. It takes me a while to take the first step but after a couple I've found my rhythm again and I'm walking pretty much normally. I don't exactly know where I'm going, just as far away from the hospital as possible, I suppose.  
Without paying too much attention, I follow the Thames for a good half a mile then take a right turn, after that, I lose track of my path and just wonder around the city thoughtlessly for hours. I need to think about things, I need to get my thoughts straight; I need my violin.

My head snaps back into focus and I look around myself to find out where I am. I notice that it's night out even though I'm sure when I left it was morning. Not letting that bother me too much, I quickly orient myself and calculate the quickest way back to 221B Baker Street. With big steps and a short breath, I start running towards the flat, not looking out for cars, busses or pedestrians. Interestingly I manage not to bump into anyone/anything along the way, and before I know it, I'm catching my breath over a couple steps in front of a black door with the golden letters "221B" nailed onto it. Slowly I get back right side up and reach into my pocket looking for the old rusty key I kept all this time. Smirking at the memories surrounding it, I carefully place it into the ignition and turn it to the left. The door clicks unlocked and I smile in delight.

Upon stepping in and throwing my coat and scarf off I slowly make my way through the familiar, yet alien living room. It is covered in dust and not quite as I remember, but small details like where I left the skull still where just as I recalled. I take a deep breath and walk over to the violin hidden away in the shadows and the dust accumulated with the years. With steady hands, I reach for it and the bow, carefully placed beside the wooden instrument, and pull them over. Immediately I place it under my neck and start playing a tune I once learnt but can't remember the name of. Of course I play it horribly, as it isn't tuned, but even if, I don't think I would do very well. I'm too out of practise. After a couple minutes I feel I'm used to holding a bow again. Now, gently I place the bow over the A-string, stroke over it gently and listen carefully to the sound.

_Higher  
_I tune it accordingly and stroke the string again.  
_Higher  
Lower_  
I do the same with all four strings, impressed that I am still able to tune them all without a tuning device. Once finished, I stare out the window for a moment, the violin resting under my chin and the bow lazily hanging down from my arm, almost reaching the ground. For a moment, all I can think of is the hospital, John, the coma. That is when I realize that I have to start playing. With a swift move, I lift the bow and place it over the strings while adjusting my fingers for the first note. I hesitate, but the moment I finally play that first "B", the rest of Ode To Joy quickly spills out of me, as I concentrate on a point on the wall. It surprises me that I still know the entire thing by heart, and somehow, I find I'm playing too well for my liking. I don't want to sound good right now; I want to play something badly, reflecting what I'm feeling right now. I decide to do the one song that even before "The Fall" I hadn't quite mastered yet: "The Four Seasons".

For this forty minute long symphony, obviously I need the music sheets. I search around the abandoned flat, looking through every drawer and throwing all my own compositions on the ground until finally I find he first page. Soon after, I find a bundle of about eight crammed up in another drawer, and after at least half an hour of searching, I have all the pages together. I haven't used a note rack in years, so there certainly isn't one here. Instead I just wipe away some of the dust off the desk and spread the first four pages out on it. I study them, to familiarise myself with the piece and once I feel ready, I take a deep breath and place the bow onto it.

The first season I play, winter, sounds horrible, dark as my soul feels at the moment, but I'm not even sure that that's not how it sounds. With ease I stroke the strings while carefully placing my fingers as was shown to me so many years ago. Before "The Fall", before John, before all the "Consulting Detective" nonsense, before the family feuds before... I can't even remember, I started so long ago; it's all a blur to me. Without even really noticing, the season switches to spring and the butterfly part comes. I try to focus on purely the song again; I want to stop thinking about John. It hurts my head too much. But all the thoughts are just bouncing around my skull, and my eyes close as my grip around the bow tightens. People from my past, who are stuck in my head are starting to tell me everything I've done wrong, as if I didn't know myself. The only thing missing is John's soft voice counting up all the things I've done to him. Not even that _one_ thing.  
It's like they're all punishing me with their screaming, while he's punishing me his ever-lasting silence. The silence consumes all the other voices and I'm left with a buzzing noise in my head as I enter the summer part of the song. The buzzing gets louder and louder, and there's sweat pearling down my head, and it hurts, and I'm thinking even less straight than before, and every note I play requires so much effort and it hurts so much more than just a second ago, and suddenly I notice that I'm not playing anymore.

My eyes open as my focus comes back to me and I see the violin lying on the floor, one string broken. The bow is still in my hand, but almost slipping out, as my palms are far too clammy to get a good grip. I let out a snort of rage and throw the bow to the wall, only with a lot of self-restraint managing not to just stamp onto the wooden instrument. I don't want it to look like a nice string instrument built out of elegant wood anymore, I want it to be destroyed, ugly, pointless like everything else in my life. Suddenly, I realize what a monster I'm becoming and I take a breath, concentrating on why I came here; I needed to find my focus again, and since I managed to even damage the violin I'll have to do it on my own. Slowly, I make my way to the sofa, sit down and close my eyes.

_John will die. I can't stop it. There's no way. So I may as well accept it._

Having come to that conclusion, my eyes rip open again. I know just what I have to do now. However, the moment I get up, I almost fall over in exhaustion. If I leave the flat, I'm certain that I'll manage to get run over by a car. For a few moments I consider that possibility, but then I push it away and decide it would be best to sleep. A part of me, the guilty beyond all reason part, is telling me that I don't deserve such luxuries as sleep, but common sense for once wins the battle. I manage to drag my skinny self up the stairs to John's bedroom. I don't want to see my own. I want to sleep where he slept. I want to be closer to him. As I slowly open the door, I notice how much I want and how little I'm getting... I throw myself onto the plain bed and fall asleep almost immediately.

I know that I dreamt something, but I can't remember the next morning. Everything's a blur anyway. As I push my head aside and blink at the unexpected sunlight the memories slowly return to me.

_I need to go to the graveyard.  
_  
As quickly as possible I get up and search through the desk for a blank sheet of paper. Pulling drawers out and throwing them on the ground, I don't even think of how much this looks like a robbery. Finally there's paper in the fifth drawer, which I throw to the floor. I grab it and frantically reach for one of the pens, which have been placed in mugs on the desk. Shaking, I place the sheet on it and write the words "JOHN WATSON" on it in a messy handwriting. Carefully, I fold it twice and stuff it into my pocket as I search the drawers on the carpet for the sticky tape.  
_Not there, not there..._  
"Damn!" I yell, while running back to the desk and yanking the two remaining drawers out and throwing their components around in hope that the tape might be somewhere. From the corner of my eye I can see it flying out of the left drawer and landing all the way in the kitchen. I run over there in record speed and bend over grab hold of it as fast as possible. Once it's also stuffed into my pocket I race back to the door and take my coat off the hook. As I didn't even take my shoes off to sleep I am out of the flat within seven seconds. Once the black door is closed behind me I roughly put the coat on and start running as fast as possible to the cemetery. Before I know it, I'm catching my breath in front of the rusty gates to the graveyard. Feeling the folded piece of paper in my pocket pushing against my thigh, I swallow harshly and push the gates aside.

Slowly, I step onto the moist grass, which I haven't' seen much more than a week ago, and let it soak up my non-waterproof shoes. As the water slowly penetrates the cheap leather of my soles, I make my way to the tombstone with my name engraved upon it. Even from afar, I can clearly see the blood stain darkly shimmering on the top edge. The entire image of John falling down, hitting his head and bleeding in my arms returns to me. I blink so that it leaves, but that tiny trail of blood on the 'S' just keeps reminding me. My lips tighten and I pull out the tape and paper. I kneel down onto the muddy ground and unfold the page. I place it on the black marble and completely cover my name. Holding the paper down with one hand, I reach for the tape and rip a small strip off, carefully sticking it onto the stone. A drop of rain falls onto my hand. My eyes flash over to the gravestone, which now has the name John Watson on it, and I stare at it, trying to picture his death as real as possible. Another raindrop falls, this time on the bloodstain. The rain liquidises the dark crust and creates the illusion of fresh blood. A very good illusion. I ignore it and concentrate on the name, written in blue ballpoint.

A few minutes pass before the idea of his death really reaches me; the idea that this is the last place I will have ever seen John, both conscious and at all, flashes through my mind; the thought that I will have to continue solving murders, alone, knowing that I in fact am a murderer myself; that I will have to go through all of his possessions and choose for him, which ones are worth keeping and which should just be thrown away, incinerated and forgotten; the idea that I will have to live every single second, reminding myself that my best friend died because of me. My eyes widen as I stare at the black tombstone with the crumpled paper stuck to it. I let out a huge, gross sob, so angry that it could be the growl of a savage wolf, yet so sad that it could be the wince of a dying dog. As my hands reach for my head and grab my hair painfully, my legs give in and I'm kneeling on the muddy ground. I'm choking myself with my yells but I in no way try to make breathing on easier job. The tears come pouring out more than ever before as I dare to look at the tombstone again. For just a second, I can bare it, but when the rage kicks back in with double the strength as before, I aggressively rip the paper off the black marble, and throw it to the ground, pull my knees to my head to lean it in, and continue my by now habit of crying.

Seconds, minutes, hours pass and nothing changes. I don't think I would notice if I stayed like this for a week. It couldn't possibly hurt anymore than the huge stone, pressing against my microscopic heart, drowning my lungs with grief, nauseating me with guilt, and making me want to vomit. A couple times I try gagging myself, sometimes even reaching in my throat just to see if I might feel better about it. No luck, I haven't eaten anything in days. All I manage is to cough up a little saliva just putting me into physical pain as well. It might be raining but I don't take note of it. I want to hit my head against the edge of the tombstone as well, kill myself too, but I know that a) I don't deserve the easy way out and b) my reflexes will most likely not allow it. I can't tell if I'm even screaming anymore, the absence of John's voice is making too much noise for me to hear anything but it. My eyes have forced themselves closed, and I'm still holding onto my knees, but I'm pretty sure that I've now shifted to the side, as my face feels an odd moisture, which is definitely not tears. I think I've stopped crying now, but I'm too exhausted to even move from my position. I...

_He stands on the edge of the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital, his back to me, motionless. The sky above me is blood red, no sun to be seen, but every edge is still sharp, almost highlighted. I call his name. No reply. Slowly, I start walking towards him, I want to see him. No matter how many steps I take, I am unable to get any closer to him. I want to hear his voice. What does his voice even sound like? Again, I call out to him. He doesn't react. From behind me a voice echoes: "Why did you let me fall, Sherlock?"  
My pace quickens and now I'm running to him, but still I am not moving.  
"Why did you let me fall, Sherlock?"  
"John!" I say, finally recognizing the somewhat ghostly sounding voice.  
"Why did you let me fall..." He slowly turns around to face me. In the last moment before ending his turn, I notice that his neck is actually covered in blood, as if he'd hit his head really badly. He spreads his arms out.  
"Don't let me fall."  
"No!" I run even faster than before, and suddenly it's like the barrier between us is broken. Sprinting towards him, I spread my arms out to catch him. I reach out to him, but I miscalculated everything, and my hands miss him by a millisecond. He slips away swiftly, and leans in too far...  
"No!..." I yell helplessly, as I watch from the top of the hospital as he falls to the ground. A disgusting, crunching noise breaks the fall, and I'm staring at his motionless body, blood spreading from his head to my name written in chalk on the pavement, staining the second 'S' in m-_

When I wake, my heart is racing and I can barely catch my breath as if I've just been running. What just happened? I close my wet eyes for a second, open them again and look around me. I'm sitting on cold grass, next to me my tombstone and a crumpled piece of paper. I smell of a mixture of sweat, mud and grass, my coat is completely ruined. There's a constant banging in my head and with a sigh I reach for it, trying to regain my orientation.  
"Hmpfgh," I say while rubbing my forehead soothingly.  
_Don't let me fall... _his voice resonates in my mind. My eyes rip open and I jump up, the entire dream coming back to me in a beat. It was an epiphany. I need to stop the euthanasia. I can't let them kill him. I will do everything to keep him alive conscious or not. I can't let him fall again. Quickly, I turn around, pat of some of the dirt from my coat and start running faster than I've ever run before, away from the tombstone and the graveyard. Before I even leave the gates sweat is already pearling down my neck, but I ignore it. I am determined to make it. I will get there. My toes ache terribly and I'm getting cramps in my stomachs, but I simply increase my speed. Ignoring all the passers, probably wondering what kind of mad, homeless junky I might be, I run pass two Underground stations, five bus stops and twenty-three cabs. The doors to St. Bart's hospital almost blast open and I push every nurse and doctor who gets in my way to the side. The elevator is too slow to get up there, so I take the fire stairs. At every turn I need to hold onto the bar as I'm going so fast that G-force is actually whipping me as far outwards as possible. When I reach the third floor I let go and push the fire exit door aside, running down the corridor, all the way to room 32. I take a couple breaths while holding the round doorknob in my hand, then open it. I freeze. Where John is supposed to be lying, is an empty bed with a clean blanket neatly folded onto it.

What happened doesn't register at first. I can't speak, can't move, I can barely even think. I don't understand, what happened, why is the bed empty? I know the answer, but I refuse to accept it.  
_John is dead. They pulled the plug while you were gone_ a voice inside me explains. It feels like a punch in the stomach.  
"No..." I whisper. I finally take a step closer.  
"No..." Approaching the bed, I reach my arms out to see if it's actually all my imagination. My hands touch the clean cloth and nothing else.  
"No!" My voice is louder than a siren and it cracks mid-word as I throw my head to the mattress and the tears return again. I failed. It's as easy as that, and yet I am completely unable to grasp it. John can't be dead, he isn't, it's not possible. And yet, here I am in an empty hospital room mourning an impresent man at his deathbed. Choking sobs escape my mouth as I dig my face into the fresh duvet. He never had the chance to hear how sorry I am, and even if he had, he still wouldn't know how much more sorry I am now.  
"Forgive me, John... Forgive me!" I scream with all my energy, but it makes no difference. He isn't any more alive than he was when I got here. Every single muscle in my body hurts as if I've just taken a beating. That's good. I should be beaten. I should be dead, that would be the only thing that would make everything go away. The constant screaming in my head would finally stop. Please just let me drop dead now. Please.

Instead the silence of the room just drowns me in sadness and anger. How could I let this happen?! I know the answer and now I am not the only person to whom I am angry. She sent me away. She told me to leave. She wanted me to go so they could pull the plug while I was gone. Lured a naïve lion away from its prey so the hyenas could have it for themselves. I just thought of John as prey. I am disgusting. Why can't I just die now?!  
The sobs continue for hours, until I am so tired that all I am doing is a quiet whimpering while the remainders of my tears dry on my skin. I am still kneeling over the bed my face pressed against the mattress. I feel sick, feverish, my throat is burning, my eyes refuse to open. The bed will need another washing once I get myself to let go of it. Why did they even wash it in the first place? If they hadn't I would've maybe still caught his scent. Someone's footsteps behind me break the silence.  
"Go away, I want to be alone." After all this I have no intention on talking to Molly again. She's just a traitor.  
"Sherlock..." Why can't she accept that no is no?! I turn away from the bed to face her enraged.  
"I said to go away!" I scream. All I get is a stare. But it isn't Molly who's staring at me.  
"Sherlock, it's okay, I'm here," I finally hear his voice after three years. My nose sucks in all the air possible and I forget how to breathe it out again.

This can't be true, it's not possible, I must be imagining him. I walk over to him and glance at him critically, trying to find the flaw in my imagination. He can't be real. Why is he leaning on a cane? Why isn't he looking at me angrily? I reach my arm out to touch his shoulder. I feel flesh and bone and for the last time I burst into tears.

Until a week ago, I could say that I hadn't cried since I was a child, until now, I could say that I had never, ever cried of joy. Everything is so overwhelming that I almost fall over again, but this time I have someone to cling onto and catch my fall. He softly pats my back and speaks with comforting words:  
"It's okay, it's all fine, everything's going to be fine..." We remain in that position for an unknown amount of time until the fact that John Watson is in fact alive and conscious finally sinks in and I can pull myself away from him. His look is now somewhat harsher, expecting that long-awaited explanation.  
_Finally._  
I gesture the dirty bed and we both slowly walk over to it, John seeming to require a lot of effort for it as he is really leaning on his cane. The two of us sit and look at each other for a couple seconds before he finally breaks the ice.  
"So, why did you fake your death?" says he while crossing his arms.  
"It... it was the only way I could protect you... You would've all died. And then I had to make the world safe again for me to come back."  
John nods.  
"And what exactly happened that day at the cemetery?"  
"What do you remember?"  
John closes his eyes to concentrate.  
"I remember... standing in front of the stone and suddenly... you were there and nothing else."  
I look down ashamed.  
"Nothing more happened. You were so surprised by my presence that you tripped backwards and..." I trail off, the image still hunting my memories. He places his hand on my shoulder and smiles. I look back up to him.  
"What happened to you?" He explains when he woke up. It was hours after I'd left the hospital. They'd moved him to a different room and he'' making big progress, he only has some struggling with walking still, hence the cane. He'll be released soon. He's fine.  
"Listen, John... I don't think you'll ever understand how sorry I am about everything."  
"It's fine, Sherlo-"  
"No, it's not! You almost died, and it's all my fault."  
He puts his other hand onto my shoulder.  
"Sherlock, you've already been forgiven."  
My eyes widen.  
"R-Really?" John's smile widens into almost a grin and I can't help but do the same.  
"Always," he says.


End file.
